


The Deeper Meaning of Laundry

by coolbyrne



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 10:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18914887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbyrne/pseuds/coolbyrne
Summary: Life is full of mundane tasks. It's the moments between that matter. Established Slibbs





	The Deeper Meaning of Laundry

**Author's Note:**

> Kinda goes after 'Shopping List', as I mention the ice cream and cheese. (The ice cream is also a sly reference to jenni3penny's "At the Broken Places".) As I said in that fic, I like the idea of these everyday moments carving out deeper ones in the Jack/Gibbs relationship. Went with the Sick Trope, but tried to take it in a slightly different direction.

No amount of sunshine that could filter through her window could make her not feel like a bag of ick. She tried to roll over and shut out the world, but her raw nose and scratchy throat knocked on her frontal lobe like an insistent salesman at the door. Her body ached and her head pounded and the only relief she could find under the mountain of blankets and random balls of kleenex was a smell that somehow made its way past her stuffiness and went straight to her brain. 

_His smell._

Eyes bravely squinting open, she discovered what she had suspected- she was in her own bed. A bed he had never been in. (Because despite their current development from co-workers to friends to ‘Yes, right there, don’t stop’, it had always been at his house. She wondered if she had done that at first to give him the confidence that comes with being on familiar ground. Like he needed the confidence.) So if he’d never been in her bed and she had been sick as a dog for a week- 

She looked down at her sleepwear.

_“That’s my favourite shirt,” he groused, seeing her come down the stairs into the kitchen._

_“What a coincidence!” she mock-exclaimed. “It’s my favourite, too!”_

_“Those better not be my boxers.”_

She grinned at the memory and took stock of her bottoms. _Yep and yep._ Mystery solved, she rolled onto her back, knowing she wouldn’t be going back to sleep any time soon, and debated what her next step would be. Her stomach growled a reply, and she wondered the last time she had eaten. Vaguely remembering soup of some kind but nothing more, she patted her stomach apologetically. 

“Guess I’m getting up,” she announced to the empty room. A bang from somewhere downstairs made her jump. “I’m definitely getting up.”

She knew she wouldn’t have the energy to actually take on an intruder, but she hoped the gun in her hand would do all the work for her. Though the stairs absorbed her soft footsteps, it did her no good, as swollen sinuses blocked her ears’ ability to suss out anything quieter than a loud bang. Pinpointing the sound to have originated around the corner, she hoped for the best and stepped into the room, weapon forward. Cool blue eyes stopped her in her tracks.

“Jesus, Gibbs!” she exclaimed, lowering her weapon. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“What the hell are you doin’ outta bed?”

“I asked first. Indignantly.”

He answered her question with another. “What does it look like I’m doin’?”

Blinking hard and brushing back her hair, she took in her surroundings. The soft white light painted a tableau of a man in a 20 year old T-shirt (also one of her favourites) and well-worn jeans, standing in front of a dryer, folding her-

“You’re doing my laundry.” Scrunching up her face and shaking her head, she said, “That’s not what I mean. Not literally. I meant, what are you doing _here_? I purposely told you to stay away while I had this cold. I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Don’t like it,” he replied.

“And you think _I_ like being sick?” His head tilt made her rethink her retort. _Oh._ He wasn’t talking about being sick. What he didn’t like was not being where she was, not having her in his home, his bed, his arms. Like he took it as a personal affront that no admonishment from her could prevent him from vanquishing. He stood there, with a pair of lace underwear in his hands, looking like the strongest force in the world. “I could kiss you right now,” she confessed, unafraid to be honest. “But, you know,” she pointed at herself, in all her sickly glory. Her brain rewound. “Oh my god, you’re washing my underwear.”

His brows came together. “Yeah. They were in the basket with the rest.” A grin spread across his face at her mortification. “Married 4 times, Sloane. Seen it all.” He pretended to examine the underwear hanging from his fingertip. “Definitely seen these. Dinner at Lucatelli’s. Cost me a week’s wages.”

“I thought I made it worth your while,” she pouted. “Guess I was wrong.” Putting the safety on her gun, she placed it on the washing machine, and there was something about it that niggled at her brain. "It's quiet."

"Yeah." His confusion drew out the word.

"You fixed my washing machine. How long have I been out of it?? What day is it?"

His grin came back. "Saturday."

Her mental calendar counted back to Wednesday when Leon had to practically put her in a taxi and send her home. She vaguely remembered a very unimpressed Gibbs chewing her out about being irresponsible and stubborn until she started-

"Oh God. I cried." He shrugged away her embarrassment but she was having none of it. "I bawled like a baby and left big wet patches on your shirt. My favourite shirt." She looked down. "My second favourite shirt."

"How many damn shirts of mine are your favourite?"

She found comfort in his dry accusation, knowing it was a weak attempt at hiding his secret pleasure. “All of them,” she replied, reaching out for the hem of his shirt and swaying closer. A hard huff told her everything she needed to know about what he thought of her claim, but she was undaunted, flashing a grin of her own. 

He let the sass pass, taking some sympathy on her, but not much. “Explains the 4 shirts I found in the basket. I’m takin’ those back.” He was unphased by her pout. “Now that you’ve solved the mystery of the laundry room, you wanna go back to bed now?”

It was more of an order than a question, but she pretended not to notice, and was more than willing to play up her pout for all it was worth. “No. I’m hungry.” 

"Then get upstairs. Still some of that soup Delilah gave me."

His words filled in some blanks. "You fed me soup."

The wonder in her voice seemed to embarrass him, because he gruffly said, "Get goin' and I'll bring you some."

"Nope," she airily replied, turning around and heading towards the kitchen. 

He could only shake his head, collect her gun and follow her.

…..

"Sorry you didn’t have an open flame to heat up the soup," she said, face inches above the steaming bowl. "God, this is amazing.:"

"Even better when you actually eat it," he deadpanned. "An' I've got an open flame at home." 

"I'm not contaminating your house. Bad enough you're here."

He shook away her reasoning. "I like you close." There was something deeper, something unspoken in his words that begged deciphering. Before she could attempt a guess that would likely be closer to the target than he’d like, he shrugged. "Just bein' practical." His eyes shied away from hers, telling her more than he wanted.

"Just being sweet," she corrected, intentionally oblivious to his scowl. She let his displeasure linger for a moment longer before alleviating it with a wink. "Who would do my laundry?"

"My washer and dryer work." 

“So you want me to lug my laundry over once a week?” she asked, knowing full well what he was really implying. The question was an attempt to cover the nervous kernel of excitement that had suddenly developed. She both wanted to know the answer and hoped he pretended not to know what she meant. Because he had to know. Did know. He wasn’t a stupid man. His ability to cut through the bullshit was one of the things that attracted her to him. (Which seemed to be a mutual thing; he had once said the same about her.) But was now, over a bowl of reheated chicken noodle soup and runny nose, the right time to get into the deeper meaning behind laundry?

Apparently, he didn’t think so, and she was okay with that. “How else am I gonna get my shirts back?” She began to laugh but a yawn overtook her. Reminded of her condition, his playful tone took a turn to the serious and he stood. “Back to bed. Now.”

“Ooh, Cowboy, I love it when you’re bossy.” Her voice was strong but her legs were weak and she swayed into him. She put her hand on his chest to counter the lack of balance. “Oh.”

Without thought, he scooped her up in his arms. “Jesus,” he muttered, staggering to the stairs.

“You need to stop buying me ice cream,” she murmured into his neck.

“You’re not fat, Sloane. I’m just old.”

Nuzzling under his ear, she disagreed. “I prefer ‘seasoned’.”

“You an’ me both.” 

They didn’t speak on their way up the stairs, mainly because he was focusing on not going ass over tea kettle backwards, and she was nodding off. He took a breather at the top, happy to keep his protesting knees to himself. He summoned enough strength to get her to the bed and lay her down gently. As he began to tug the blankets out from under her, she blindly reached out.

“Shhh. Just gettin’ ya settled.”

“‘Kay.” 

Though her words seemed to finish the conversation, the grip on his forearm remained and his hesitation lasted the length of time it took him to brush her hair from her face. She stirred when the mattress gave under his weight and she automatically turned into his embrace.

"Gonna get sick," she warned him.

"Don't get sick," he replied into her hair, tucking her under his chin. She burrowed in impossibly tighter, finding a healing potion in his chest, his arms, his smell. "Go to sleep."

She couldn’t disobey the order even if she tried. 

…..

The comforting warmth of her body in his arms was gone, replaced by a pillow that annoyed him in its inadequacy. Rolling onto his back, he flung the offending thing to the side and tried to throw off the blankets. 

_If she wasn’t here, why was he so damn hot?_

His brain wasn’t entirely clogged by the sinus congestion.

“I’m sick.” 

His diagnosis was direct, dry and completely accurate. And got a sheepish, “Hey,” from the end of the bed. Lifting what felt like a 20 pound bowling ball, he raised his head just enough to make eye contact with (a remarkably healthy looking) Jack.

“You made me sick.”

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” She stood up and wagged her finger at him. “Mr. ‘Don’t Get Sick’, remember? I told you not to come here! I gave you plenty of opportunity to leave.”

He dropped his head back with a thump. “That’s not what your grabby hands said last night.”

“Last night?” she repeated. She wasn’t entirely unaware of her clingy nature -she was sick!- but it hadn’t addled her brain enough to cause memory loss. If she was going to have ‘grabby hands’, it would have had to have been-

“Gibbs, that was 2 nights ago.”

To his credit, he took it better than she thought.

“What?”

His evenness made her rethink that thought. Rather than answer the question, she came to his side and squeezed out a face cloth from a small bowl on the dresser. 

“Let’s not talk about that right now.” Patting the cloth against his forehead, down his neck and to his chest, she assured him, “Fever’s broke. That’s the worst part over.”

“Oh, I think the worst part’s about to begin.”

If his ornery nature when he was healthy didn’t dent her disposition, it wasn’t going to have any better luck when he was sick.

“Poor baby,” she cooed, having none of his dismay. “If you’d just stayed away.”

He closed his eyes when she wiped a fresh cloth over his face. “Can’t do that.”

The cloth paused for a second before starting again. “Listen to you, Mr. Sweet Talker. I'd kiss you if you weren't sick."

The words reached his brain a fraction of a second slower than it took her to jump away from the indignant grab she knew was coming. 

She admonished him with a stern, "Ah!" though seeing him in the bed, she couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for him. His tousled hair and clouded blue eyes looked almost lost in the sea of blankets she had piled on top of him. What was it about men turning into little boys when they got sick? "I called Tim and let him know you wouldn't be coming in today. Or tomorrow. Or probably the next day. And I took some leave."

"Didn’t have to do that."

There was a petulance in his voice that made her roll her eyes. Not only did they look like boys, but they often acted like it, too.

“Sure I did,” she explained. “When else will I have time to go through your house and get all the shirts I want?” He opened his mouth to retort, but was clearly too tired. Taking some pity on him, she sat at the edge of the bed again and brushed back a silver lock that perspiration had stuck to his forehead. “Seriously, I was thinking about taking you home later if you’re feeling up to it. I know staying here isn’t really your thing. I also know you won’t have anything in your fridge besides steak sauce and cheese, so-”

“Ate the cheese.”

“Pardon?” She held up her hand. “No, I heard. You _ate_ the cheese? The 15 dollar cheese? You don’t just _eat_ the cheese, Gibbs.”

He found the strength to shrug. “S’good cheese.”

Drawing in a deep breath, she started again. “Okay. So you have steak sauce. All the more reason to go shopping.”

He curled his hand around her wrist and said, “Stay. I’ll stay.”

She tilted her head and looked all the way to the foot of the bed and back. “Really? I didn’t think staying here was your ‘thing’.” She heard how it sounded and backtracked. “I mean, it’s perfectly okay if you don’t want to stay. Just surprised that you do. Why am I babbling?”

He had stealthily conserved enough energy to catch her off guard and flip her over his hip and on to her back. She squealed in surprise and delight.

“Gibbs!”

“I know a way to get you to stop.”

His mouth lowered down to hers, but she twisted out of the way.

“Eww, you’re sick!” she laughed. “Get away from me.”

Her fists against his chest were half-hearted and they stopped completely when his mouth simply moved on to its next target. She tilted her chin up to assist the journey.

“Feelin’ better now,” he said, his lips sending delicious vibrations against her throat. “A hell of a lot better.”

…..

-end.

 

 

 


End file.
